


worst kind of way

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Buckets (Homestuck), Chucklevoodoos, Forced Orgasm, Gags, M/M, Mind Control, Mirror Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 06:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15383016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: If a planet could ever be gelded, it's Beforus. Good fuckin' thing you've got a kismesis who's actually halfwaydecentat holding up his half of a spade.Sorta.You think.





	worst kind of way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hipstersoulgushers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipstersoulgushers/gifts).



> "Some blackrom of these two having aggressive hypnosis sex."

Considering the crap state Beforus is in right about now, it's fuckin' miracle that you've got a functioning kismesis, let alone one of a purple hue. Really, it's nothing like the glory days of your Ancestor, those wild, untamed days, before everything was padded corners.  _Long_  before he helped )(er Radiance take her proper place on the throne.

Nothing against )(er Radiance, of course. You'd rather take an eye out than let anyone hear you say a word against her.

(For one thing, your Ancestor'd kill you. For another, you could think of a few  _other_  proper places for her that the old man probably enjoyed.)

Still, it certainly made for a shit state of affairs, especially in the quads department for a dashing seadweller prince such as yourself. No one seemed to have any  _respect_  anymore, not for proper status and  _certainly_  not for blood.

Oh, sure, there were always lackeys and flunkies and toadies. But like your Ancestor had warned you, they got boring  _real_  fast, and you ended up with an odd sort of longing for actual, proper, trolls.

 

Really, it almost made this thing with Kurloz special. He was lucky to have you, and  _he_  certainly seemed to know it, even if others didn't. Idiots. They'd sort it out eventually, and then you'd get to see them all come crawling back to you, penitent as a star-crossed lover after a pointless fight. You could wait. You were patient. You had the years.

When you rap on the door to his hive, he seems to be in something of a foul mood. Instead of shrugging it off, like an asshole, you decide to help him cheer up, like the amazing kismesis you are.

"Eyyy, Kurloz. What's eatin' you, man?" He scowls harder, if that's even possible. Ever since he took that idiotic vow of silence, he's been a right pain in the glutes sometimes, but you're a forgiving guy. "Aw, c'mon—"

Instead of replying to you, like any polite troll would do, he slouches off into his kitchen, ignoring you completely.

You're not one of those attention whores or anything, but you don't like being ignored. You're not sure you know anyone who does, really, but when your kismesis is the guy doing it...

It has you baring your fangs and stalking after him. When he ignores your next comment, you let it roll off your back, waiting for him to notice the harder edge in your eyes. Your Ancestor's an uptight prick about a lot of things, but he made sure to teach you how to handle a spar, and if Kurloz decides it's a day to push things a little more, you can handle whatever shit he decides to throw at you.

 

* * *

 

You are  _not_  in the mood to be dealing with this fuckshit right about now.

 

It's ben two hours since your arrival, and you've been  _nothing_  but courteously pitch, perfectly solicitous in the blackest of ways, and that  _slimy little fuck_  won't even so much as give you the time of day. Really, it's a miracle (hah, you're funny) that you haven't hit the end of your rope before  _now_.

You're nearing it, though, rapidly fucking approaching like you're coming to the bottom of a cliff dive and you ain't sure if it's rocks or water below.

Don't matter. You can handle either.

 

Might as well see if he can too.

 

"So I hear Damz and Rufioh finally broke it off for good. Last little fight they had was too much for them, or somethin'. Shitbloods, yeah?" You nudge him, and he continues to ignore you, despite the fact that you'd clearly gone out of your way to choose a topic relevant to him. Everyone knew Equius was the reason they'd fucked it up, and Meulin was...kind of friends with that sweaty guy.

And instead of even bothering to acknowledge you, his clear superior, he keeps working on whatever weird little project he's got, carefully stitching away with that needle and thread.

 

A growl builds in the back of your throat.

 

"Hey," you say, and shove his shoulder—gently. "I'm  _talkin'_  to you."

He frowns down at the piece, ignoring you still, and this pisses you off even more than before.

"Hey, jackass,  _look at me_." You shove his shoulder again, this time, hard enough to spin him towards you. 

 

His eyes go purple.

Your world goes blank.

 

* * *

 

_Some minds are a sight easier than others. Once you know the levers to pull, once you know where-how to get settled in, wear 'em like a second skin when you need the doing done. Some are real pretty to be in, lots of good to see, sugar sweetness settling right in alongside your bones._

* * *

When you resurface, Kurloz's bulge is down your throat, and your eyes go wide. You've usually got no objections to this sorta shit—cool guys return the favor and all of that—but he's  _huge_ , bigger than the last time you pailed (has it been that long? fuck, when'd you miss his molt—) and you're choking on him. Judging by that stupid fucking smile he's wearing, this seems to be amusing him more than concerning him—and when you dig your claws into his hips to let him know  _exactly_  what you think of this shit, he wraps his hands around your headgear and hauls you the rest of the way down.

Your gills flare open immediately, and you nearly sob, your lips brushing against his sheath. For some reason—you don't know why, you can't understand it, the little pull,  _brother put your hands away for me_ —your hands drop from his skin, and settle neatly in the hollow of your back.

Kurloz smiles again, and your pants get a little tighter, when he looks on you with favor. It's almost as good as getting touched.

You don't get to dwell on this long, though. He keeps hold of your horns and pulls you almost all the way off his bulge—then slams right back down your throat, enjoying the way you choke and writhe. Your pitch is a fucking sadist, he is, the way he gets off on pain like this. You'd raise a protest, if you fucking could.

 

He alternates between fucking your throat slowly, long draw out, harsh slam in, and settling into your mouth and letting it writhe until your throat feels raw and aching.

Your fins spell out a protest, and in response, he holds something up. At first, you struggle to recognize it, squinting up at the slightly blurry shape in his hand. Then you hear a quiet little  _click_ , and it becomes very obvious what his newest tool is.

 

For...some strange, strange reason, you hadn't noticed that there was something stuffed up your nook  _(let's ignore that for a little while, my hatebro)_ , right up until he'd turned it on. Sure, you'd noticed your bulge out, the tightness in your pants, but you'd assumed—you'd assumed you were just  _really_  turned on by the sounds your pitchmate was making. Not that your bulge had been forced out by whatever monstrosity Makara had shoved up your nook when you weren't paying attention.

You'd gone from unaware to immediately,  _painfully_  aware, as the vibrations started, and kicked up into high gear, making you shudder and  _moan_  around Kurloz's bulge. When you tried to grind down, though, fuck yourself back against it and relieve some of the ache, your pitchmate had shaken his head at you, and you'd nearly sobbed  _(no need to keep it in, let me see those fine fucking emotions)_ , started sobbing, wanting to beg for permission.

He'd turned it up higher.

And started fucking your throat in earnest.

 

Arms bound behind you—you're being polite, of course, wouldn't want to hurt him with your seaborn strength—means you've got nothing to dig your claws into but yourself, so you do, nails cutting into your own skin as he uses you like a pailtoy.

When he spills down your throat, you whimper, eyes shut, tears streaking down your skin. He pulls out halfway through, and covers your skin in purple, marking you like territory. You don't even mind.

 

* * *

 

_His is oilslick rainbows, pretty little miracles in a tainted little puddle. You'd be annoyed, if you weren't so amused, if it weren't so easy for you to reach in and pluck a thought up, quiet one down, wrap him up in silence and sweetness and make him be so so so good for you. It's a fun little experiment, seeing how far backwards you can bend him without a break, what shapes you can mold all of his poison rainbows into. Some night, though. Some night you might see how fun it would be to push him a little too motherfucking far._

* * *

You're still coated in purple, but now you're bent over forwards. Still on your knees, but now your wrists are bound up proper. You dimly congratulate yourself on having done such a damn good job teaching Kurloz his knots, these are holding up real fucking well, not even a little bit of an embarrassment to your teaching. He's a deepsdamn credit to your teaching, he is.

Your cheek is pressed against a cool rubber mat; your knees leave little indents in it, and you're wondering how long you've been kneeling here. Every so often, your hips jerk a little forward, and you're wondering why, until the memory flips back on: right, you've still got that toy stuffed up your nook. And every so often, Kurloz presses on it, a little bit more.

A whistle cuts through the air, and you jolt right fucking forward—you're not sure what he hit the toy with, but his aim's fucking perfect, and you trill, as it digs into your nook, hitting your seedflap hard.

 

Somehow, you hear him laugh.

 

When his hands land on you, you jerk forward again—and the cool metal edge of a bucket presses into your stomach. Oh,  _fuck_. This is absolutely filthy, he's got you bent over a bucket and he's, presumably, going to fuck you right into it. It's sheer fuckin' depravity, and you have to mentally pardon yourself the slip into Zahhak territory as an unaccountable shudder of need runs down your spine.

_(show me how bad you want it.)_

So you do.

 

You rut against the bucket, toy still buried in your nook, and only stop when a broad hand lands on your back, pushing you down as far as you'll go, metal burning a circle into your skin, your bulge curling away from the chill. "What—"

His hand wraps around the base of the toy, and pulls it out.

You scream again, and the world goes blank once more.

 

For a minute.

 

He's in you, when you resurface up through the haze, and you can feel violet slurry against the tip of your bulge, a hand wrapped tight around the base of it. There's only about an inch of spill, then, he didn't let you finish the whole way—but he's  _in_  you, curled over you, all the glorious height of a subjuggulator stretched out over you, and the insatiable width and length of a clown cultist's bulge buried in you, sheath deep, once more.

You let out a moan, that verges on a sob. Real weird, but he seems to be going for it, so you ain't complaining.

He pulls nearly free, before fucking his hips back in with a snap that pitches you forward once more, and you cry out again, hands clawing at the air for some purchase you know you won't be able to find.

You don't dare claw him. You're not sure why.

 

He buries inside of you, again and again, his bulge curling and lashing deeper each time. You're grateful, right about now, that he'd left that thing inside of you as long as he did: you're not sure you could take him now, if he hadn't.

Instead of expressing this as eloquently as you'd like to, you start begging. You're not sure  _why_ , he's finally got with the picture, you're not some fragile fucking dirtblood, you can take it a little rough—but you're whining enough that you're pretty damn sure your Ancestor'd be rolling in his grave, if he were dead.

You can feel Kurloz's annoyance like it's your own, and you shut up with a quiet little whimper. The last thing you want is—

 

He pulls out, and you collapse against the bucket, panting, ignoring the way it digs into you. Now that he's not holding your bulge, it leaks slurry, in a disappointed little stream, your orgasm absolutely fucking ruined. Before you can start bitching about  _that_ , he's back, with something you can't—don't?—see in his hands.

He kneels down in front of you. You get ten seconds to think about how right the sight looks before he slips the ring gag into your mouth and locks it around the back of your head.

 

It pisses you off enough to bring back a little of your fight, and you manage to shove off the ground—the bucket—and snarl as best as you can at him, through the gag.

He only laughs, and drops down behind you again. When you try to turn, he catches one of your horns, and redirects you—oh. Oh, fucking  _hell_.

 

He's got you set up in front of a mirror, and you're not sure how you didn't notice it before. Either way, it's  _another_ level of debauchery you hadn't expected from him—though you're really starting to think you  _should_  have—and you're about to have a go at biting through whatever he put in your mouth when he shoves up inside of you again.

You scream. He laughs.

It's a thing now, apparently.

 

He doesn't bend you back over. One hand settles at your hip, and the other wraps around your neck, bracing on your shoulder.

It's not vanity if it's true, and damn is it true that you make a pretty fine fucking figure like this. He's got your back arched just so, and your bulge curls, still dripping slurry— _(pride goeth before the messiah's justice)_ —you whimper, and press back against him, shame flooding you as you start picking up on the other little details. Kurloz's paint is smeared across your back, over your shoulders, and your hair's all a mess, bruises purpling your skin along with the slurry he'd left to dry all over you. You can still taste him, all down the back of your throat.

No mercy is forthcoming from your kismesis—good, you wouldn't want it anyway. It's better, to take his hips snapping up, fucking you full again, and again, and again, until you're screaming his name best as you can around the shape of the ring gag, gills raw with dragged-in air, nook and throat aching like they've been used by every troll in the deeps cursed palace.

When he spills inside of you, he drops you down to sprawl over the bucket again, whimpering and shuddering. You're close, you're  _so fucking close_ , but you can't—you can't, for some reason you can't—

  
  
He stays inside of you, while he undoes the ring gag, and the ropes on your wrists, and you shiver and squirm, tighten up around him, but you don't question it.

_(if a motherfucker wants a favor he'd best learn to be motherfucking polite about it.)_

You rut back against him, carefully, cautiously, and he purrs, dragging his claws down your sides, along your back, carefully avoiding your gills. It pulls another noise out of you, that, and the feeling of the cold slurry as your bulge twists in it. You're so fucking full, you can easily see the outline of his bulge, softened by all of the slurry that couldn't fit into your seedflap, in the mirror's reflection.

"Please," you mumble, desperate. "Please."

Something snaps, and you pail with a hoarse shout, before the world goes purple again.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ever drone season and my first attempt at  
> oh fuck a lot of this  
> I really hope you like it


End file.
